


moments lost, moments gained

by commodorecliche, Dervila



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Human, Amnesia, Aziraphale falls from Heaven, Burns, Crowley Calls Aziraphale 'Angel' (Good Omens), Crowley is expelled from Hell, First Kiss, Forbidden Love, Fractures, God turns them both human, Love, M/M, Medical descriptions of injury, Memory Loss, Pet Names, Romance, Soulmates, True Love, Turning Human AU, even though he doesn't know why, falling, hospital au, i dunno how else to tag this, meeting in the hospital, patient AU, some descriptions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29252289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dervila/pseuds/Dervila
Summary: With frantic, fumbling steps, Hamish hurries back to his car, grabs his radio, and alerts headquarters.“Yes, uh,” He huffs with urgency, “This is PC Hamish Black; I’ve got two folks out here off the A30, both suffering from severe injuries and unresponsive. One burn and one… impact, maybe? I can’t tell. I need emergency units here as soon as possible.”Hamish takes another look at the two men strewn across the highway, the rubble and flames surrounding them both. He vaguely hears headquarters responding to his alert.“Please, hurry,” he mutters.::Crowley and Aziraphale are expelled from their respective realms when their partnership is found out, and find themselves waking up in hospital as humans, with no memory of their previous natures, and no memory of each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	moments lost, moments gained

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I'm super excited to share this fic that I wrote for the 'Do It With Style' Good Omens Reverse Bang. This fic was inspired by this amazing piece by siskey (Dervila) [link coming soon]. This was such a fun project for me to work on, given my background in medicine. I played it a little loosey-goosey with UK hospital protocols and such, I imagine (since I'm not located in the UK), but hopefully y'all can just ignore that. ;) 
> 
> Please note that I rated this fic Mature, not for anything overtly sexual, but rather because there is some intermittent description of bodily harm/injury (in a medical setting), as well as description of scarring. The descriptions are nothing _overly_ graphic, but still worth noting.

**::**

The scent of burnt grass is a striking one. Unique and multifaceted, it is not unfamiliar to Hamish’s nose, but it is always unexpected. Its scent is that of kindling that is far too wet, dew evaporating into the dry evening air. It is the scent of new life cut short, damaged, or snuffed out before it had the chance to reach up to the heavens. 

It’s a quarter past one in the morning, and Hamish is off duty now, driving home after his patrol shift along the quiet, country roads. He smells the acrid scent with a twitch of his nose: smoke and wet grass filtering into his car through the vents. It is nothing like the pleasant, warm smell of burning dry leaves in autumn, or a fireplace’s comforting crackle. No, there is something different about this smell - a sulphurous tinge now pollutes the smell of smoke. Hamish has driven these roads a hundred times before without ever smelling a scent like this. 

He smells the destruction a mile before he ever sees it. 

With widening eyes, he eases his foot onto the brake as he approaches the scene, his headlights illuminating human-shaped figures strewn across the road in front of him. He slows to a stop, brow furrowed, and shifts the car to park. Low-burning flames litter the grass along the highway, and caustic smoke billows from the cracks in the pavement. Hamish slips out of the car with care, taking cautious steps towards the scene before him. 

Besides the flames that are littered across the demolished pavement and greenery around him, the first thing Hamish sees is a man lying prone in the middle of the road. Fire surrounds him and a few flames are gently licking at his body; they seem to ease away from him as Hamish draws nearer. With hurried steps, Hamish rushes towards the man. He stamps out what little remains of the fire as he approaches and calls out, but the man doesn’t move or respond. Hamish notes that his skin is burnt from his feet to his head, as is his hair; the putrid scent of its singe invades Hamish’s nostrils with harsh potency. The man’s clothes are mostly gone, eaten away by the fire. His hair - or at least, what little is left of it - is bright red and littered with dirt, soot, and ash. His skin is wrinkled from the burns, certain parts of him blistered and raw. On the side of his head, Hamish can see what looks to be a tattoo of a snake on his left temple. 

Hamish fumbles his fingers to the stranger’s neck and detects a faint pulse. 

“Sir, can you hear me??” Hamish tries again, but still gets no reply. “Fuck…” 

Hamish looks up and whips his head around, looking for anyone else nearby, looking for  _ anything  _ that might explain this poor soul lying prone and unconscious in the road. 

A few yards down the road, Hamish spots another figure sprawled across the pavement. With a harsh huff of breath, he stands and strides past the unresponsive man towards the other figure. It’s another young man, about the same age as the other, Hamish would think. The pavement around him is cracked and dented, like a crater after a meteor has struck the Earth. The man is situated in the dead center of the indentation as though he himself had crashed into the ground. The man is sprawled out on his back, limbs akimbo, head lolling to one side. He is covered in blood. His clothes, which Hamish believes must have once been white or beige, are sullied and stained with the red of his blood, the black soot of the asphalt, and the brown dirt of the ground. His bleached-blond hair is just as filthy, matted with new, wet blood and tangled with bits of debris. 

A small trickle of blood drips from his mouth. And much like the other man, he does not respond or move when Hamish calls out to him. With frantic, fumbling steps, Hamish hurries back to his car, grabs his radio, and alerts headquarters. 

“Yes, uh,” He huffs with urgency, “This is PC Hamish Black; I’ve got two folks out here off the A30, both suffering from severe injuries and unresponsive. One burn and one… impact, maybe? I can’t tell. I need emergency units here as soon as possible.” 

Hamish takes another look at the two men strewn across the highway, the rubble and flames surrounding them both. He vaguely hears headquarters responding to his alert. 

“Please, hurry,” he mutters. 

**::**

Crowley doesn’t know much about hospitals. If he’s honest, he doesn’t know the  _ first thing  _ about hospitals except that they’re big buildings where sick people go. But what he does know, right this moment, is that the emergency department is perhaps the  _ noisiest _ and most upsetting place in which a person could wake up. 

He knows this only because he has just woken up in an emergency department. 

Crowley has come-to in a lot of strange places before. At least, he assumes he has. He can’t precisely remember all those instances at the moment - he can’t precisely remember much of  _ anything  _ at the moment - but he’s absolutely sure that at some point in his life he’s come-to in one strange place or another. And he’s  _ absolutely  _ sure that those places could not have been nearly as noisy nor as strange as the emergency department at the University Hospital in London. 

It is the noisy hustle and bustle that wakes him back into consciousness. With a groan, Crowley attempts to open his eyes. One of them opens with ease, although there is a bit of bleariness at first that he has to blink away, but his other eye struggles to open.

_ Christ, did I lose an eye? What happened to me?  _ Crowley thinks to himself.

With his good eye, Crowley takes in his surroundings. He’s lying on a gurney, from what he can tell, and he has bandages and gauze wrapped liberally around his torso, arms, and hands. With unsteady movements, he reaches up to his head to feel his face, or to at least feel it as well as he can with his fingers wrapped. He finds there is gauze secured around his head, as well, covering one eye and blocking it off from his exploring hands.

There is a curtain to his left and front, and a wall behind him. This is less a room and more of a curtained bay, sectioned off from all the other gurneys and patients in the emergency department. To his right, there is an IV pole with numerous lines running into his arms and hands. Just past that, there is another gurney. Atop it is a man with bleached-blond hair, sitting up and reclined slightly with his eyes calmly shut. He has a collar brace secured around his neck, and his face and arms are bruised and scraped up to hell and back. Despite his sorry state, Crowley cannot help but note the attractive angles of his jaw, the gentle sharpness of his nose, and the tender plumpness of his cheeks. Crowley smiles softly at the sight of him. He can only hope that this stranger is sleeping peacefully and not aching from his injuries.

Crowley attempts to sit up but finds his body racked with pain at the movement. His skin feels tight and hot beneath his bandages, and a stinging ache zips through his arms and chest at even the most modest of movements. With an unwitting groan, Crowley gives up on moving and relaxes back down into his pillow, his breath heavy from the discomfort and the exertion. 

His groans of pain, however, stir his roommate awake. The young man lets out a soft puff of air and hisses with his own discomfort as he comes to. Crowley’s gaze shifts to his right and watches the man’s eyes begin to crack. As they blink open, Crowley is met with a sudden, radiant blue, a pair of eyes that are far too bright and lively for a man who is stuck in the ER with a neckbrace. Crowley’s brow furrows slightly as something warm and familiar stirs inside his chest at the sight of this stranger’s eyes. 

_ I’ve seen this face before, these eyes _ , he thinks to himself,  _ I don’t know when, but I have seen this man before _ . 

“Oh,” the man says as his sleep-addled gaze clears and he notices Crowley, “Hello.” 

He seems a bit surprised to see Crowley awake, but he does not appear bothered by Crowley’s presence. As such, Crowley smiles at him as best he can through his bandaging and ekes out a greeting. 

“Hi,” Crowley pauses and tries to adjust himself on his pillow but once again finds himself unable to move more than an inch or so without pain. With a huff, he attempts a joke, “What are you in for?” 

“Hm, not entirely sure, if I’m honest. But my head’s been hurting, and I would hazard a guess I have something going on with my neck,” the man points weakly at his neck brace as if for emphasis, “I feel rather weak. How about you, friend?” 

Crowley would normally have shrugged in response, but he fears that the motion will only cause him more pain. Instead, he shakes his head noncommittally. 

“Not sure, either. Don’t remember… I can remember some… smoke, and fire, Next thing I know, I wake up here, hurtin’ like hell.” 

The stranger’s face is sympathetic as he nods, the motion limited by his neck brace. His eyes run up and down the length of Crowley’s form lying supine atop the gurney, as though he were trying to asses how extensive Crowley’s bandaging is and whether it not it reaches beneath the line of Crowley’s blanket. Crowley, too, wonders how severely his legs and feet are injured; by the pain he feels when he tries to move them, he would guess that they aren’t much better than his upper half. 

“Are they burns?” the man asks with concern. 

Crowley huffs out an uneasy chuckle, sardonic and dry. 

“I think so.” 

“Goodness, I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley again wants to shrug, but knows it is better if he doesn’t. 

“S’alright,” he says, instead. 

There is a look on the stranger’s face that confuses Crowley. It is not pity, but rather a look of perplexion mixed with blossoming familiarity, as though Crowley were the missing piece of a puzzle that this man has been trying to put together. It is almost as if he is studying Crowley, taking him in, and trying to figure out where on Earth Crowley fits into his life. 

Crowley has to wonder if perhaps this man has sensed the same recognizable warmth upon seeing Crowley that Crowley had felt the moment he saw the stranger’s face. 

But the stranger’s curious expression dissipates just as quickly as it came, and the man shakes his head, as if to rid himself of his thoughts. 

After a long, quiet moment, Crowley clears his throat. 

“Ngk, I, uh, don’t particularly know why I’m singed from head to toe, but I do remember my name,” Crowley offers into the space between them. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, it’s Anthony,” He pauses a moment, before tacking on his surname, “Anthony Crowley. Most folks call me Crowley.” 

The stranger grins at that, and repeats the name softly -  _ Crowley  _ \- as though he were testing its weight on his tongue. 

“Do  _ you  _ have name, Mr. Neckbrace?” 

Aziraphale smiles fully now, and nods. 

“Aziraphale,” he replies with quiet fondness. 

_ Aziraphale _ , Crowley thinks.  _ Why have I heard that name before? _

“Hmph, sounds like… an angel’s name or something, I don’t know.”

Aziraphale chuckles and nods. 

“I’m fairly certain it’s biblical, at least. Some people have called me Zira. You can call me that, if you like, if it’s easier.” 

“Zira,” Crowley mutters to himself, testing the feeling of the word in his mouth much the same as Aziraphale had with his own. After a moment, Crowley shakes his head, “No. Aziraphale suits you.” 

At that moment, a nurse pulls the curtain open and slips into their bay. 

“Oh, you’re both awake, good. I’ll be sure to let the doctors know to come speak with you.” 

She turns her attention towards Aziraphale’s gurney.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Fell?” 

“I’m fine, my dear, tickety-boo.”

Crowley smirks upon hearing the strange turn of phrase. The nurse looks over at Crowley then and asks him the same question. For reasons unknown, Crowley wants to lie. He wants to say he is fine -  _ tickety-boo _ , as Aziraphale might say. He has no idea why; perhaps it is due to some burning desire to appear strong and resilient in front of Aziraphale, even though he cannot explain why this man’s opinion should matter to him at all. 

Crowley is about to tell her the lie, to say that he’s alright and comfortable, but as soon tries to shift again in bed, pain sears through him. He lets out a hiss and clenches his jaw so tightly he fears a tooth might break. 

“I’m,” Crowley sighs, swallowing his pride, “It does hurt quite a lot, if I’m honest.” 

The nurse nods her understanding. 

“I’ll have the doctor put in an order for something to help you manage, alright, love?” 

Crowley nods and thanks her. 

“I’m sorry we’ve had to bunk you together - it’s a horribly busy night, and the units are all full,” She walks towards Aziraphale’s IV pole and checks the fluids and the medication dosages. She does the same for Crowley’s, and Crowley can see from her ID badge that her name is Rebecca. 

“We’re trying to find beds in the units for you both,” Rebecca continues, “but for now, you’ll stay here. You came in together, though, so we figured it couldn’t hurt for the time being.”

That gets both of their attention. Crowley turns his head, meeting Aziraphale’s perplexed gaze. 

“Sorry, wait,” Crowley starts. 

“You say we came in together?” Aziraphale finishes for him. 

“Yes,” Rebecca says, her eyes darting between them, “You two don’t know each other?” 

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other, and a moment of hesitation lingers between them both. Crowley  _ feels  _ like he knows this man, but he cannot say for sure. Aziraphale seems to be thinking the same. 

“No,” Crowley replies, looking back at the nurse, “We don’t.” 

“What happened, do you know?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Not a lot, love,” She replies, “Emergency services said a constable found you both unconscious in the middle of the A30 last night. You both have been out since; it’s a miracle we didn’t need to intubate either of you, given your injuries. You’re actually doing quite well, all things considered.” 

Aziraphale lets out a soft sigh, and Crowley turns his head to look at him. The other man is staring straight down at his hands, brow furrowed and tight, as though he were trying to remember something. But after a beat, he shakes his head and plasters on a smile for Rebecca. He looks up at her with kindness and thanks her. She nods her understanding, and exits their bay, moving on to check on her numerous other patients.

Crowley and Aziraphale stare at each other once again, and silently, they decide to not to discuss the elephant in the room for now. 

**::**

The emergency department around them continues to bustle for most of the night, but Aziraphale and Crowley remain awake and Crowley finds himself infrequently bothered by the noise. They chat idly about what few things they can remember about their lives. 

Crowley tells Aziraphale he likes cars - old ones, fancy ones, the kind that people often pay a little too much money for even if they’re dated and out of style. He remembers that he had a nice old car of his own, but he can’t precisely remember its make or its color. He supposes that will have to come with time. 

Aziraphale tells Crowley he likes books - when Crowley asks what kinds, Aziraphale smiles dreamily and lolls his head back against his pillow. He says that he loves all types of books, but he prefers the classics. Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare, Faulkner, and Hemingway. Crowley finds it more than a little amusing that Aziraphale can claim to like the latter two equally. 

With a long sigh, Aziraphale glances around the room. 

“Rather wish I had a book right now… I’d ask for one, but I fear what sort of pop-fiction trash they might have.  _ James Patterson _ , and the likes, you know the type.” 

Aziraphale says the author’s name with such disdain that Crowley can’t help but laugh. 

“Well, then, you’ll just have to make do with my pitiful company.” 

“Oh, I’m sure your company will be marvelous, my dear boy.” 

Crowley’s smile falters at those words -  _ dear boy _ . They ring familiar, and intimate, in a way that Crowley cannot articulate, but they warm and comforting like a sip of brandy after dessert, dulling the ache of his fragile body. And yet, at the same time, those words feel foreign and wrong, as though Crowley were not meant to be referred to as such,  _ especially  _ not by Aziraphale. It feels as though whatever tenderness is hovering between them now is something forbidden, frowned upon. Crowley, however, cannot imagine why that would ever be the case, and he has no explanation for it besides the roiling instinct in his gut. 

It takes a moment for Crowley to realize that he has been quiet for too long, and that Aziraphale’s eyes are focused on him. Crowley shakes his head and comes back to himself, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze with his own uncovered eye. 

“This will sound strange,” Crowley starts, “but I feel as though… I know you.” 

Aziraphale lets out a soft hum. 

“I was thinking the same thing; but as to why that would be, I have no idea.”

**::**

It takes a few more hours before a consult physician can come to round with them. Crowley and Aziraphale pass the time talking, picking out the little bits and pieces of their lives that they remember. 

“I can’t really recall what I did for a living,” Aziraphale says, picking idly at his fingernails as Crowley looks on with curiosity, “But I feel as though I could have owned a bookshop. Or perhaps been a librarian.” 

Aziraphale laughs softly to himself and glances at Crowley. 

“I’ll tell you what though, I remember having this absolute brute of a boss. I can’t remember what the job was, or even the man’s name, but I can vividly remember how much of a right  _ prick  _ he was,” Aziraphale stops short, catching himself, “Oh. Forgive my language,” He says sheepishly. 

Crowley smiles and shakes his head, the ill-formed images of Aziraphale’s mysterious prick of a boss lingering in his head. 

“He called me chubby once,” Aziraphale states, as if trying to defend his less-than-flattering description of the man. 

“Well, he certainly sounds like a right prick,” Crowley affirms, watching with joy as a small smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. 

A beat of silence passes between them before Aziraphale breaks it. 

“What about you? What do you do? Or do you not remember?” 

“Not sure… Maybe I… worked on cars? I don’t know, I can’t remember at all. Feel like I might have been a bit of a troublemaker though, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking,” Crowley pauses and furrows his brow in thought, “It’s funny… I  _ can  _ vaguely remember an old boss of my own. They were a bit of a sleeze; brash and rude. My coworkers too, I remember not liking them. Slimy bunch, the lot of them.” 

“Maybe it’s best we don’t remember them.” 

Crowley smiles at that, and nods his agreement. In the quiet that falls between them, Crowley uses the moment to simply take Aziraphale in. His gentle features, the tender brightness of his eyes, the welcoming shape of his figure, it stirs something familiar within him, something old and ancient like a fire that has burned inside Crowley for millennia. 

_ Why do you look like someone I used to know?  _ Crowley thinks to himself,  _ Why were you with me on the road last night?  _

As though Aziraphale had heard his thoughts, he angles his body towards Crowley again and lets their gazes meet. Aziraphale says nothing, but there is quiet understanding on his face. Crowley can practically see his own thoughts mirrored in Aziraphale’s pondering expression. 

Crowley opens his mouth, wanting to speak, but he has no idea what to say. He hopes that perhaps his mouth can stammer something clever, or that he can come up with something that might jog their memories. How do two people come to be stranded, unconscious, in the middle of the night together on the rural A30 and have no memory of each other at all? Was their trauma that severe? Crowley doesn’t have the answers, and he can think of nothing to say. He closes his mouth shifts his eye away from Aziraphale’s. 

At that moment, a physician pulls the curtain aside and enters their bay. She is tall woman with mid-length blonde hair, strong shoulders, and a presence that is both commanding and comforting. She smiles and addresses Aziraphale, moving to stand at the side of his gurney. She spares a quick glance at Crowley, then directs her focus back to Aziraphale. 

“I’m Dr. Taylor, I’m with neurosurgery, I just wanted to chat with you for a moment,” She spares another glance at Crowley, “Are you comfortable speaking with me now or would you prefer a little more privacy?” 

Aziraphale angles so he can see Crowley and smiles. He shrugs at the doctor. 

“Doesn’t matter, dear; my companion is fine, we can chat with him here.” 

Dr. Taylor smiles and performs a quick neuro exam on him, testing his reflexes, strength, and sensation. When she finishes, she pulls up a stool to sit at the bedside. She does lower her voice, in order to speak to Aziraphale with a bit more privacy, and Crowley does his best to allow them that and not eavesdrop if he can. 

He can’t help but hear most of the conversation anyway. 

“You do have some weakness in your arms and legs. We did some imaging when you were first brought in, and you look like you’ve got a compression fracture of your fourth cervical vertebra,” she points at her neck as though to demonstrate. “and it’s causing compression on your spinal cord which is why you’re weak - those motor signals from your brain aren’t conducting down your spinal cord as easily with this compression. These sort of fractures tend to happen when the neck is flexed forward too far, hyperflexed. A lot of times it’s after a fall where someone landed on their back or neck: the head gets flung forward with the impact and it flexes the neck too far and compacts the vertebra. And I would hazard a guess, based on how you were found, that’s what probably happened to you.” 

The doctor pauses, allowing Aziraphale to take her words in. When he nods his understanding, she continues. 

“You’ve got some bruising and lacerations on the back of your head, too, not to mention all over the rest of it, so to me it looks like you fell from a pretty decent height. Do you remember anything? Can you tell me at all what happened?” 

Crowley dares a quick glance at Aziraphale; his expression is focused, before shifting into resignation. He shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t really remember at the moment.” 

“That’s okay. We did a scan on your head too, just to make sure your brain was looking okay, and thankfully it is. No hematoma or hemorrhage, no notable skull damage, nothing, which is great. But you know, I think it would be wise to keep an eye on your memory and your cognition over time, just to make sure nothing is getting worse, okay?” 

“Alright.” 

“For your neck,” Dr. Taylor’s voice shifts and takes on an even more matter-of-fact tone than she already had before, “we gotta get you into the operating room. We need to stabilize your neck and get your spinal cord some more room, because otherwise, you have a pretty high chance of declining, meaning if we don’t get you stabilized, you will probably get weaker to the point of paralysis.” 

Dr. Taylor continues, going over the gist of the procedure, the hardware that would need to be put in, and the neurophysiology team that would be keeping an eye on Aziraphale’s spinal cord during the procedure to make sure no neurological injuries occurred. After that, she discusses the risks, which range from bleeding to infection to paralysis and death. Aziraphale blanches as he listens to her speak, and Crowley forces himself to look away. 

Finally, she asks him if he would like to proceed with surgery. Aziraphale swallows thickly, so loudly that Crowley can hear it, his anxiety palpable in his hesitancy to respond. But eventually he affirms his consent. 

“I’m gunna try to get you scheduled in the next day or so, okay? In the meantime, I’d like to get you sent up the neuro unit, we should have a bed free now.” 

With that, she bids Aziraphale goodbye, and exits the bay. 

“Jesus,” Crowley mutters once she’s gone. He’s about to ask if Aziraphale is alright, but as soon as he starts to, like clockwork, the curtain pulls back and a physician with Burn Care enters the bay to speak with Crowley. 

This doctor is a shorter man, shorter than Dr. Taylor, for sure. He’s older, with white hair, a gentle face, and a reassuring smile, even as he approaches Crowley at his worst. He introduces himself as Dr. Galecki, and gives Crowley very little information regarding the status of his wounds. At least, it’s not as much information as Dr. Taylor had given Aziraphale. 

Instead, he simply tells Crowley that he’s very lucky, considering the state in which he was found. 

“You were found, more or less surrounded by fire, your clothes burnt off your body, per the officer who found you. It is… frankly, mind-blowing that you aren’t in worse shape, Mr. Crowley. Most of your burns are first degree, and a some are second degree, which is nothing short of  _ miraculous _ , to be quite honest with you. But I would consider that someone, somewhere likes you, or that you’re simply very lucky.” 

Lucky. 

Crowley doesn’t feel very lucky. It doesn’t seem particularly lucky to wake up in an emergency department, covered head to toe in bandages, with little to no memory of how you got there. It doesn’t seem particularly lucky to be covered head to toe in burns. 

“Your eye on the other hand…” Dr. Galecki continues, “We’re not exactly sure at this point how much damage has been done to it. We’re going to just have to wait and see how it develops and heals, but I would mentally prepare to lose some, if not all, function in that eye.” 

Crowley licks his lips and nods, dropping his gaze from the doctor. 

_ Nothing  _ about this feels lucky. 

Crowley spares a short glance over at Aziraphale, who is focused very intently on his hands clasped in his lap. 

_ Well, _ Crowley thinks to himself as he takes Aziraphale in,  _ maybe it isn’t all bad _ . 

“There are a few spots on your legs that I’m concerned about - the burns are pretty broad across the area and they may very well need surgical grafting, and there’s one spot that is bordering on third degree. But for now, we’re going to get you transferred to the burn unit and keep a watch on them. Are you comfortable enough for now? I put an order in for some morphine to help with the pain.” 

Crowley nods and expresses his thanks, but he feels a tight twisting in his chest as the doctor nods and leaves the bay. 

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs, “Looks like we’re both in fairly rough shape…” 

“What the devil happened to us?” Crowley asks, looking over to Aziraphale as though he might somehow have the answers. But Aziraphale’s face is just as blank and confused as Crowley’s own. Crowley can’t figure out why the word  _ devil  _ tasted so strangely on his tongue just now. 

Aziraphale shakes his head with a sigh. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale’s voice is low and resigned, “I just don’t know.” 

A moment later, their nurse, Rebecca, returns and gives Crowley a small bolus of morphine. 

“This should make your pain a bit better. It will make you sleepy, though, love,” she warns Crowley. 

After she’s left, Aziraphale plasters on small smile and tells Crowley he should get some rest. Crowley wants to protest, wants to stay up and talk more to Aziraphale, but he suddenly cannot stay awake. 

**::**

Crowley wakes minutes, or perhaps hours later, at the sound of the gears of his gurney being activated. The loud clunking of his hospital bed jars him from his heavy sleep. His eyes are blurry, but he notes immediately that Aziraphale’s gurney is no longer next to his. There is a team of nurses and transport techs around him, preparing to transfer him up to the burn unit, if Crowley had to guess. 

“Wait,” he groans, voice hazy and slurred with the drugs, “My friend, where’d he go?” 

A fuzzy but familiar face pops into view - Rebecca, the nurse that had been tending to them earlier. She plasters on a sympathetic, but sad smile. 

“They already transferred him, love, I’m sorry. He told me to tell you he was going to the neuro unit on the ninth floor.” 

A deep pang of loss echos within Crowley’s chest, a tingling ache at the realization that he hadn’t even gotten to tell Aziraphale goodbye. He lolls his head back against the pillows as the nurses begin to wheel him out of the emergency department and towards wherever the burn unit is. He finds himself wondering if he’ll ever even see Aziraphale again. 

“R’becca,” Crowley slurs through his morphine-haze, not even knowing if she’s near him at all, “Can you tell Aziraphale where I’m going?” 

Crowley drifts out of consciousness before he can hear if she replies. 

**::**

The next day, Aziraphale spends his time alone in his room on the ninth floor. It is, frankly, boring and not in the least pleasant. The physicians have ordered he stay in bed and minimize movements, for the sake of his unstable spine. His surgeon, Dr. Taylor, has already scheduled his procedure for the following afternoon, and although Aziraphale is anxious about it, he finds himself thinking on the procedure with relatively stoic acceptance. Whatever happens during his surgery will happen; he has a good team, or so he’s told, and that’s all he can really hope for. He debates praying, but something painful, deep within his breast, dissuades him from. Perhaps it’s the medications he’s on, perhaps it is simply resignation, Aziraphale cannot say for certain. 

And so he spends his hours either sleeping, gazing out the window, or staring at his hands and wishing he had something to occupy the time. Quietly, he wishes he still had Crowley to talk to. 

It’s a strange thing, this: being discovered injured and unconscious alongside someone you’ve never met, for reasons unknown, in the middle of nowhere. Waking up to them in the hospital, talking with them and feeling as if you know them, with no memory to validate those feelings. But as Aziraphale stares out his ninth floor window onto the dreary London streets below, a profound emptiness settles over him, deep and unnerving, seeping down to his very core. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers to himself, folding the name over in his mouth, searching for familiarity in the movement that his lips and tongue make around it. 

It  _ is  _ familiar - achingly so - but it is familiar in the way that a dream is familiar. You remembered it once, perhaps right when you awoke, but now the dream is little more than a fuzzy clump of imagery and emotion, lingering in recesses of your mind. It is inaccessible, perhaps never meant to be remembered, and certainly never meant to be explained. 

Aziraphale hates it. 

He remembers himself and his life in bits and pieces. But he remembers nothing about the strange man he woke up next to in the emergency department just one night prior. He remembers horrible bosses that he has endured, he remembers his love of books, he remembers his favorite pastries, but cannot remember how he wound up sprawled and unconscious in crater in the A30 pavement. He sighs, shaking his head to himself as the sun begins to set behind the London skyline. Maybe he’ll never remember; that is an unwelcomed possibility that Aziraphale hasn’t ruled out. 

Maybe Crowley will never remember, either. Maybe, after this hospital stay, he and Crowley will go their separate ways, each other little more than a distant memory in each others’ periphery. 

Aziraphale hopes that isn’t the case. 

A moment later, a young nurse enters his room. He doesn’t recognize the young man, as he was not the nurse that had been tending to him these last several hours. Aziraphale wonders if perhaps the evening shift has taken over. 

The nurse - a young man with blond hair;  _ John _ , per his name badge - greets him with a smile and checks his medication and fluid infusions. 

“Hey there, I’m John,” the nurse introduces, “How are ya, tonight, Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale shrugs and scratches at the irritated skin of his neck beneath his brace. 

“Well, all things considered, I could be better, but for now I’m doing quite well, thank you.” 

“Aye, can’t say I blame you there, sir. Probably a million other places you’d rather be, eh?” 

The nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around his bicep and begins his brief examination of Aziraphale. When he finishes, he gives Aziraphale’s arm a gentle pat. 

“Are you comfortable? Need anything? Dinner service should be by soon enough.” 

“I think I’m fine, thank you, dear boy.” 

“O’course, Mr. Fell. Now, I got notes that you’re up for surgery tomorrow afternoon around 11 AM-ish, which means we gotta keep you NPO after dinner.” 

“NPO?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Oh,  _ nil per os _ . It means nothing by mouth - medications excluded. It’s just so you won’t be sick when they put you to sleep. Can’t have you vomiting and getting that gunk in your lungs, can we? So no food or drink after 8 pm tonight, okay?”

“Understood.” 

“You need anything else?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, and John nods and moves to exit the room. But before he can open the door, Aziraphale calls out to him. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale starts when John has turned his attention back towards him, “I hate to bother you with this but… in the ER, I was brought in at the same time as another young gentleman, a man with burns on him. I was hoping… I know he’s still in the hospital, I believe he went to the burn unit. I was hoping there might be a way for me to contact him.” 

John looks pensive for a moment. 

“Well, I can’t access his chart since he’s not my patient and, even if he were, I couldn’t give out his contact information or room number.” 

Aziraphale’s face falls. 

“Yes, I understand.” 

“But,” John says thoughtfully, “he told you what unit he went to?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with a nod, “the burn unit. I also told him that I’d be coming here.” 

“We could always call the unit and leave a message with the charge nurse. They could relay the message for you, and any contact information of your own you’d like to leave with him. Then the ball would be in his court.” 

Aziraphale smiles softly and nods again. 

“Yes, could we do that?” 

“Sure thing, what would you like me to tell the charge?” 

“Um,” Aziraphale hesitates and glances around his room, “What room am I in?” 

“Heh,” John grins, “9306.” 

“Right, so, how about we give her a message for Mr. Anthony Crowley; tell him that I am in the neuro ICU, room 9306, and to call into my room if he so wishes.” 

John smiles at him. 

“I’ll get the message to the charge on that unit.” 

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. It means a lot.” 

“Of course,” John says with a soft, understanding grin. 

John leaves and dims the lights in the room as he goes. Aziraphale stares out the window again, watching as the sun continues to recede past the horizon. His room is growing darker, the light fading with the setting sun. Aziraphale hums to himself; he doesn’t particularly want to sit sit in the dark just yet. 

Unthinking, Aziraphale snaps his fingers with a quick downward motion of his wrist. He pauses as soon as he completes the motion, staring at his hands with confusion. The room remains dark, the lights unchanged. 

_ Why had he done that? _

Aziraphale shifts his gaze towards the lightswitches on the opposite side of the room. The gesture had felt so instinctual to him, as though he’d half-expected the lights to miraculously brighten at his whim. It was clearly a ridiculous notion, so why on  _ Earth _ had he done that? 

Aziraphale doesn’t have an answer. And so, he chooses not to examine his perplexing actions further. He huffs out a low breath and reclines back into his pillow. He debates calling John back in the room to turn up the room lights, but decides against it. 

Perhaps he’ll nap until dinner comes. 

**::**

Crowley’s skin has seen better days, of that he is sure. 

He remains bandaged, looking like little more than a bundled mummy, ready for burial. And when the burn residents and nurses come to check and change his bandages, he gets glimpses of the unsightly state of his body. Much of his skin has blistered, and a patch on his right leg is severe, the flesh blackened and seemingly ready to decay. The sight alone makes Crowley a bit queasy. 

The doctors tell him he will need a skin graft for his thighs. It’s an involved and lengthy procedure, with plenty of risks, many of which Crowley remembers Aziraphale’s surgeon relaying to him in the ER, minus the paralysis, of course. Infection, bleeding, graft failure, loss of sensation, chronic pain, and even death are all flitted in front of Crowley with reassurances that most of these risks are low. Those reassurances do not make him feel much better. 

He spends the majority of his day in the unit on a morphine drip. The nurses have given him a  _ lovely  _ little morphine button that he’s allowed to push whenever he likes. It won’t always give him a dose, depending on how soon he presses it, but just having it is a comfort. 

In a haze, he remembers an old line he’d heard a few years ago in a human film. 

Crowley shakes his head. A  _ human  _ film? What a silly way to describe a movie, as though Crowley weren’t even part of the species. 

He corrects his thoughts quickly: he remembers an old line he heard in a  _ movie _ . 

_ ‘The more-phine, the better _ .’ 

It was funny when he’d first heard the line, and it seems funnier to him now that the drugs are in his system. 

But despite the medication, despite his overt sleepiness, and his desire to ward off the pain of his burns, Crowley finds himself lying awake and thinking of Aziraphale more often than not. 

His room doesn’t have a window - perhaps that’s intentional, a way to keep the sunlight away from his damaged and tender flesh. It leaves him disoriented, though, removing his ability guestimate the time of day. The room  __ have a clock, but Crowley finds it’s not the same. Crowley lists his head to the side to glance at its face - it’s after 6 in the evening now, the sun should be going down any moment now. He wonders what it looks like outside - is it nice out? Or perhaps dreary? Given that it’s London, his money is on dreary. But maybe the sunset is still nice. 

He wonders if Aziraphale’s room has a window. Maybe he can ask Aziraphale what London looks like from a hospital cell. Crowley shakes his head, ignoring the flash of stinging pain that jolts from the skin of his neck as he does so. He doesn’t even have a way to contact Aziraphale. 

After a few moments, a nurse comes into his room to check in on him. She tells him that dinner should be along any moment now, and Crowley is surprised to discover that he is actually  _ hungry _ . 

It’s a  _ very  _ strange sensation, he realizes suddenly, this feeling of his stomach grumbling with emptiness. It’s almost as if he’s never been hungry before, as if he’s never felt a panging need for sustenance. But of course, that’s ridiculous. He’s a human being - of  _ course  _ he has been hungry before. It’s probably just the pain medication, Crowley reasons, it’s messing with his perceptions. 

“How are you feeling, Mr. Crowley?” His nurse asks. 

Crowley recognizes her - she’s been tending to him for the last few hours. Her name is Shana, and she’s been working in burn units for the last twenty years. Or so she told Crowley when she’d first introduced herself. She’s a middle aged woman with dark hair, dark skin, and soft, brown eyes. He finds himself comforted by the gentle lines around her eyes that deepen every time she curls her lips and crinkles her face in a tender smile. 

Crowley waves a bandaged hand at her. 

“For the last time,” He says with fake exasperation, “Just Crowley is fine.” 

“But then who will I call ‘mister’?” 

“Any bloke but me, madame.” 

“See, when other people call me madame, it’s nice. When you say it, it makes feel old.” 

“Let’s just blame the drugs, Shana.” 

“Fair enough - but on that note, how’s your pain?” 

“Controlled enough, I think.” 

“That’s what I like to hear. Now, you know you can’t have anything else to eat after dinner? Your surgery is scheduled at… 10:45, I think? So no food til after.” 

Crowley waves his hand again, dismissive. 

“Yeah, the resident explained it to me. No midnight snacks for me.” 

“And do you forget it,” Shana teases, “You need anything else?” 

Crowley pauses and thinks for a moment. 

“Yes, actually. Could you send a message to another unit for me?” 

“Mmm, depends.” 

“I befriended a man in the ER, we were in the same bay. He said he was going to the neuro ICU, but didn’t say what room. Could we just send a message to the nurses over there to tell him my room number? That way he could call me if he wants?” 

Shana smiles. 

“I think that’s manageable.” 

“And uh, one more thing?” 

“You’re by far my neediest patient, I think,” she jibes with a smile, stepping closer to his bed, “What ya want?” 

“How much of a nuisance would I be if I asked you to arrange a minor delivery for me?” 

Shana smirks. 

“Listen, honey, I’m not much of a singing telegram.”

“Oh you  _ wish  _ I would ask you that,” Crowley says playfully, but his tone quickly sobers, “No, it’s just… the man I met in the emergency department. Bit of a book nut, that one. Is there maybe a campus book store or something?” 

“I mean, we have a medical library… But I don’t think that’s what you’re after.” 

“No, I was… more in the market for something fictional.” 

“Well, there is a used bookstore just up the block. Can’t say it would trouble me  _ terribly  _ to run over there for you tomorrow during my break.” 

Crowley’s brow furrows. 

“I don’t want you going out of your way for me…” 

Shana waves him off. 

“Ah, don’t flatter yourself, I was already planning on getting lunch at that little Vietnamese next to the store tomorrow. Now, if I weren’t heading that way, you’d be out of luck,” Shana smiles, kindness filling every crease and line of her face, “What book should I get?” 

“The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde, I think; he might like that,” Crowley says with unexplained confidence. He doesn’t know why he feels so sure that Aziraphale will like that book, or how he seems to just intuitively know that Aziraphale is particularly fond of Mr. Wilde’s work, but somehow… he just knows. 

“Alright, I think I can manage that for you. You’ll probably be in surgery around then but I’ll make sure to get it.” 

“You deserve an award, nurse Shana.” 

She scoffs. 

“Oh, boy, don’t I know it. Anyway, relax for a bit. I’ll be back to check on you a bit later.” 

With that, Shana leaves, shutting the door behind her as she goes. Crowley can hear her voice mingling with someone else’s just outside his room. He thinks he hears someone say his name, but he can’t be sure. 

After a moment, another nurse comes in. She’s a woman about Shana’s age, but pale and blonde, with a more stoic affect. But even so, just glancing at her, Crowley can tell she is nice enough. She quickly moves to stand by Crowley’s bedside and reaches to look at the armband on his wrist. 

“Good evening, dear, can you do me a favor and confirm your name?” 

Crowley furrows his brows, but nods. 

“Anthony J. Crowley.” 

The nurse smiles. 

“Great. Uh, a nurse from the neuro ICU called over and asked for me to deliver a message to you from a patient over there. Is that okay with you?” 

Crowley’s face lights up, hopeful that she will tell him exactly what he thinks she might. He nods and consents with urgency. 

“Yes, absolutely.” 

She nods a pulls a small note from her pocket and reads it. 

“It’s from a Mr. Azira...phale,” She struggles briefly with the pronunciation, “yes, Aziraphale Fell, goodness, what a mouthful; he wanted to tell you that he is in room 9306 if you would like to call him.” 

“Yes!” Crowley exclaims, perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm. He glances around his room, looking for a phone, “How, uh, how do I call him? I’d like to… now.” 

At Crowley’s obvious - and somewhat morphine-hazed - enthusiasm, the nurse chuckles and brings his room phone closer to his bedside. She hands him the receiver, but upon seeing his bandaged hands, she asks if he would like for her to dial for him. He nods, moderately embarrassed, but too thrilled about talking to Aziraphale again to care. 

She dials the number for him and moves to leave once the line begins to ring. 

“I’ll leave you be.” 

“Thank you,” Crowley mouths at her silently as he listens with rapt attention to the ringing over the line. 

After three rings, a familiar voice picks up. 

The voice doesn’t say hello, or hi, or good evening. Instead, it simply says: 

“Crowley…” 

Crowley breathes a heaving sigh into the receiver at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He’s a bit high on the morphine, a bit tired, and a bit hungry, but right now, he could swear that his name on Aziraphale’s lips sounds like a choir of singing angels. 

Before he can think about what he’s saying, Crowley speaks. 

“Angel…” 

He doesn’t know why he calls Aziraphale that. He doesn’t know why the endearment rolls of his tongue as though it were commonplace for him, but in this moment, he chooses not to question it. Aziraphale doesn’t question it either. 

“I’m so glad you rang…” 

“I was…” Crowley mutters, “I was scared I wouldn’t see you again.” 

Crowley pauses, listening intently as Aziraphale hums his agreement into the earphone. 

“This will sound so strange, my dear,” Aziraphale starts, “But I’ve missed you fiercely,” He pauses for a breath and then quickly adds, “Please don’t laugh.” 

“No, no,” Crowley hurries, “No, I, uh… Same here.” 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Drugged, mostly… If I’m not, my whole body hurts like hellfire.” 

“I’m so sorry, dear boy.” 

“What about you?” Crowley reclines his head back into his pillow and closes his eyes. He imagines for a brief moment that he and Aziraphale are back in the ER together, their gurneys side by side as they talk. 

“About the same, unfortunately. No worse, but I still feel so weak… I need a nurse’s support just to move about…” 

“Will the surgery help?”

“Well, my surgeon thinks so. I suppose I just have to trust in her confidence. I must say, though, it’s rather lonely over here.”

Crowley hums, and stammers a bit, unsure of how to respond. 

“Ngk… It’s a pity I can’t just… slither up there and keep you company for a bit.” 

Aziraphale actually laughs at that - warm and hearty, like the rolling sound of distant thunder, the sort of sound that could take up residence in a man’s heart. Crowley’s chest aches. 

“I wish you could,” Aziraphale says, and then pauses. With a deep breath, he continues, “I don’t know why I miss you so… I don’t know why you feel so familiar to me. But… we must have known each other, yes? We were… found together, so we must be connected in some way, right?” 

Aziraphale sounds desperate, his voice all but begging Crowley for explanations that Crowley simply cannot provide. Crowley has all the same questions, all the same emotions, and the only comfort he can find is the fact that Aziraphale feels them too. 

“I wish I knew,” is all Crowley can think to say. 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, but somewhere deep inside, Crowley can feel his companion nod his understanding. Aziraphale takes a breath, and for a moment, it sounds as though he were about to say something, perhaps something important. But the thought is interrupted by the sound of a door opening on Aziraphale’s side of the phone. 

“Oh blast,” Aziraphale says, “Dinner service has come ‘round. I may have to let you go…” 

“S’alright. Mine should be around soon.” 

“These best be pastries,” Aziraphale jokes with the room staff, and something fond and affectionate clenches beneath the tight cage of Crowley’s ribs. 

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Angel.” 

In the background, there is a slight commotion and the sound of distant voices on Aziraphale’s side of the phone. Crowley knows he should let Aziraphale go and allow him to go eat. But he doesn’t want to yet. 

“I have surgery tomorrow around 10:45…” Crowley mumbles. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says to someone in his room, his mouth away from the receiver, before turning his attention back to Crowley, “Really? I have mine at 11. Maybe we’ll see each other beforehand… That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” 

“Very.” 

Crowley smiles as he hears Aziraphale take a quick bite of food. 

“Let me let you eat,” Crowley forces himself to say, still not ready to give up the phone call. 

“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale replies. Crowley ignores the mild disappointment in his voice. 

“I hope you rest well, Angel.” 

“You too, my dear.” 

Crowley hangs up the phone and relaxes a bit more into bed. Dinner hasn’t come for him yet, but he suddenly is very tired. Maybe he’ll just rest for a while, rest until he can hear Aziraphale’s voice again. 

**::**

Crowley sleeps late the next morning, waking only when the morning shift nurses come in to check on him. Around 8:30, a transport team comes to wheel him down to the preoperative suite on the fourth floor. 

The suite is fairly busy - not quite as busy as the emergency room had been, but busy enough that Crowley finds it difficult to rest. His head hurts, and he’s tired, and his eye is throbbing behind its bandage. He’s reassured only by the thought that within a couple hours, he’ll be having a lovely little propofol nap. The nurses have told him that it’s quite a lovely sleep, too. 

A slew of care team members come to speak with him in the preop suite - nurses, anesthesia, residents, and attending physicians having him sign consents. After a while though, the visits slow down, and Crowley is finally able to relax atop the uncomfortable stretcher pillows and try to rest. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t nervous - who  _ isn’t  _ nervous prior to surgery? Especially their very first surgery. And as far as Crowley can remember, this will be his first. He never expected that horrific burns across his body would be what finally got him into an operative suite, but here he is. 

Eyes closed, Crowley allows himself to tune out the background buzz of the suite, and focuses instead on his breathing. After a few moments, he finds himself settling into a comfortable stillness that is only broken by the sound of a familiar voice. 

Crowley pops his unbandaged eye open, turning to face the curtain to his right that divides him from the bay next to him. He listens for a brief moment as the person beside him converses with their care team member; he isn’t trying to eavesdrop but… okay, well, he’s eavesdropping a little bit. But it’s for a good cause. After another moment, Crowley smiles, knowing with certainty exactly who is behind the curtain next to him. Once the care team member leaves, Crowley dares to speak. 

“Aziraphale?” He says, perhaps a bit too quietly. The person next to him doesn’t respond, and so he clears his throat and tries again, “Angel?” 

“Crowley?” The voice on the other side of the curtain says with surprise. 

“Yes! To your left. I can’t reach the curtain.” 

“Hang on, I think I can.” 

Sounds of low shifting on the gurney sound off from the neighboring bay, and after another moment, the curtain pulls back and breaks the barrier that had previously divided them. Crowley can do nothing but smile as he stares at Aziraphale’s face grinning back at him. 

“Hello, dear boy.” 

“Hello, Angel.” 

Neither of them comment on their pet names for each other, neither of them care to question them. 

**::**

The two of them chat idly for the next few moments, but eventually, a member of the anesthesia team comes to take Crowley back in the operating room. He spares a quick, nervous glance to Aziraphale, who simply smiles at him sadly. There is a look on his face that Crowley cannot read, but if he squints, he can almost imagine that it looks… wistful. 

Without prompting, Aziraphale reaches a hand out towards Crowley. Crowley reaches back with his own bandaged limb. Their fingertips touch as Crowley’s anesthesia team gives him a quick dose of Versed to relax him - but Crowley doesn’t feel all that relaxed. 

At the touch of their hands, even through Crowley’s bandages, it is as though they have touched a hundred times before this. Cool electricity from Aziraphale’s fingers tingles against the searing heat of Crowley’s own - it’s familiar, and full of longing, and Crowley cannot help but think that they have touched this way before. 

“I’ll see you after,” Aziraphale tells him. 

It’s a promise. 

Crowley nods nervously and before he knows it, the anesthesia team is wheeling him away. He wants to turn his head back and look at Aziraphale, as a deep and guttural sense of emptiness invades his body. But he cannot - he is far too tired now, far too heavy from the medication seeping its way through his bloodstream. Instead, he closes his unbandaged eye and thinks of Aziraphale’s smile as he listens to the slow drone of his stretcher’s wheels rolling across the floor. 

Lying on his back on the operating room table, a mask over his face, Crowley stares at the ceiling, devoid of expression. 

The anesthesiologist is telling him he might feel some burning in his IV from the medication they’re giving him, but Crowley feels nothing. Instead, all he feels is gentle warmth roiling in his stomach as he imagines Aziraphale standing over him. Before he knows it, his eye is fluttering closed, and Aziraphale’s smile is blending into the blackness of unconsciousness. 

He wonders, just as he drifts away, if people ever dream during surgery. If so, he hopes he’ll dream of Aziraphale. 

**::**

Crowley  _ does  _ dream, but he does not dream of Aziraphale. 

Instead, he dreams of fire, he dreams of pain, and he dreams of clawing his way up out of the deepest hole he’s ever seen as flame licks at his heels. He digs his fingers into dirt and rock, his fingernails breaking, the skin cracking and bleed as he hauls himself upwards. It feels like hours before he breaches the pavement, and the flames continue to lick at his body as he drags himself up towards the freedom of the Earth’s surface. 

**::**

Crowley awakes after surgery, hazy and disoriented, in the PACU recovery suite. He cannot see Aziraphale - and he’s far too tired to seek him out - but somehow he knows he is close by. He is exhausted and still adrift from the anesthesia, but the comfort of Aziraphale’s nearness to him overwhelms him. 

He relaxes back into his bed and wonders if Aziraphale can sense him too. 

**::**

When Crowley awakes more fully, he is back in his room in the burn unit. He is alone, save for a wisp-like figure all in white hovering at his bedside like an angel. He smiles and reaches a hand out towards the figure. 

“Aziraphale… Knew you’d be here,” He mumbles, speech slurred and tired still from anesthesia. 

The figure draws nearer, and through the haze, Crowley manages to focus on its face. He realizes with disappointment that it is only his nurse, Shana, standing next to his bed and adjust his medications. 

“He’s fine, love,” Shana whispers, though her voice sounds very far away, “He’s doing good. I dropped off that book for him too.” 

Crowley isn’t quite sure what she’s talking about - he’s still so tired - but he thanks her anyway and drifts back into blackening sleep. 

**::**

This time, Crowley dreams that he is lying on his back in the middle of the road, staring up at the sky and wondering when Aziraphale might fall down to join him on the ground. 

**::**

Aziraphale wakes in his ICU room in the late afternoon - his surgery had gone well and without complication. He is tired, but cognizant enough to take in his surroundings. The sun is low but bright across the horizon, its orange/red light filtering in through the slots of the blinds. He smiles as he stares at it; it reminds him of bright red hair that glows like the embers of a fire. 

He’s touched hair like that, he’s sure of it. 

Aziraphale relaxes his head back into his pillow and closes his eyes. There is still a collar around his neck - Dr. Taylor had warned him he’d have to wear it for a while - but he cannot bring himself to care. Instead, he thinks of Crowley, and wonders how he’s doing. 

After a few moments, the door to his room creaks open. An unfamiliar nurse enters the room and comes to his bedside. She reaches to his armband to identify him, but doesn’t ask him for his name, knowing he may still be too sleepy from the anesthesia medications. Aziraphale takes a moment to focus on her badge; it says  _ Shana _ . 

She smiles at him and places a book atop his bedside table. 

“Your friend wanted me to give you this.” 

Aziraphale nods, and with that, she leaves. 

With labored movements, Aziraphale angles his eyes towards the side table. He doesn’t reach for the book - his arms still feel weak and tired - but he eyes the spine with curiosity. 

_ The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.  _

Aziraphale grins a wide, tender smile and scoffs. 

“You silly serpent,” He mutters to himself, unsure of why it felt so right and intimate to refer to Crowley as such. 

He decides not to question it. 

**::**

A day later, Crowley bolsters up the energy to ring Aziraphale again. Aziraphale’s voice is hoarse but enthusiastic when he answers the call. 

“Crowley, my dear,” He exclaims, the smile on his face palpable in his tone. 

“You sound about as good as I do,” Crowley replies, his own hoarseness mimicking Aziraphale’s. 

“Ah, yes, my anesthesia team warned me I’d be a bit sore in the throat, but I was somewhat hoping it would be shorter-lived than this.” 

Crowley releases a breathy chuckle and shakes his head. 

“I think we’ll survive, Angel,” He pauses and sucks in a deep inhale of breath, “How are you feeling?” 

“Ah, a bit of pain. Neck is a bit stiff… Not loving the incision on my nape, but my arms and legs do feel stronger, so that’s good.” 

“That’s better than good; that’s  _ great _ .” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums, “I’ll have to do physical therapy for a while, but I’m sure I’ll be right as rain soon enough. How are  _ you _ , though? I think your procedure was lengthier than my own.” 

Crowley groans his affirmation. 

“Was out for 8 or so hours, from what Dr. Galecki said… It’s no wonder I still feel exhausted. But my grafts did well… And the resident said they are looking good today, so definite win there.” 

“And your eye?” Aziraphale asks with trepidation, “How is it?” 

“They said it’s healing, but… I still can’t see much at all. The bandages are off, though. All I can really see are… shadows and shapes out of it… I doubt my face is going to look great after these burns heal. At least the graft tissue is somewhere I can hide it… the scars from that are going to be atrocious.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply for a moment, but his breath huffs heavily into the receiver. 

“The scars will be fine,” He asserts, confident and unabashed in a way that Crowley is wholly unaccustomed to, “They’ll be on  _ you _ , so they’ll be just another lovely part of you. Same for your eye.” 

Crowley chuckles, voice high and nervous; he’s flustered, even if he won’t admit it to Aziraphale. 

“Angel, you  _ flirt _ …” 

Aziraphale doesn’t deny it. 

“When I was under,” Aziraphale says softly, “I dreamt that I fell from the sky… Falling for hours and hours and hours, only waking when I hit the pavement…” 

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat, and closes his eyes. In vivid detail, he remembers the visions he had dreamt of himself clawing his way up through rock and molten earth, struggling to find the surface. His throat goes dry and he finds he’s unable to respond. Aziraphale speaks again.

“I dreamt that you were down there, waiting for me on the ground,” He pauses. “Maybe once we’re… doing better,” Aziraphale continues, “and we’re able to escape this prison, maybe we could go for lunch, or a picnic, or a pastry.” 

“Or the Ritz,” Crowley suggests without thinking, unable to explain why the restaurant was so quick to come to mind, “You’ve always liked it. Especially the desserts.” 

Aziraphale swallows - thick and heavy, even through the muffled receiver. 

“Yes, and you’ve always liked watching me enjoy the desserts, haven’t you?” 

Aziraphale voice is drawn tight, the significance of these words pulling taut and heavily against his chest, his throat, his ribs. Aziraphale knows what he has said, much in the way that Crowley knows what he has said. 

Without realizing it, Crowley’s lip begins to tremble. His voice quivers when he speaks. 

“I don’t know how, or why, but I know you… I  _ know you _ , Angel.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale tells him, no denial on his lips, “I know.” 

Neither of them say it, but there is an unspoken understanding lingering between them that their lives have likely been intertwined for far longer than either of them truly realize. There is an unspoken understanding that their lives will likely forever be enmeshed and interwoven, like the finest fibers of a tartan scarf. 

**::**

Three weeks and six days later, Crowley and Aziraphale are both deemed well enough to be discharged; they’re released the next day. Four weeks after they were first brought to the emergency department by a well-meaning, off-duty constable, Crowley and Aziraphale are allowed to walk out the front doors on their own two feet. Crowley’s skin has mostly healed, save for the spots on his legs that were grafted and the fresh pink skin around his left eye. Aziraphale has returned to his full strength after tireless days spent in physical therapy. 

Crowley is released around noon, about an hour after Aziraphale. Aziraphale is already outside by the time Crowley finds him. They are both wearing new sets of clothes that had miraculously appeared for them in their rooms without word or explanation. Neither of them could bring themselves to question the clothing’s sudden appearance, and had instead donned it without complaint or curiosity. 

Crowley spies Aziraphale sitting on a bench out front, waiting, and watching the bustle of London foot traffic pass him by. He debates how to approach - he considers calling out to Aziraphale, he considers moving to stand beside him, he even considers hugging him. But ultimately, Crowley chooses to rest a soft hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

This is the first time they’ve touched since their fingertips had brushed in the preoperative suite almost a month before, and Aziraphale’s body is warm and comforting beneath the healed skin of Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale doesn’t startle or flinch at the contact, instead he lazily angles gaze upwards to his right, and beams at Crowley in the sunlight. 

They both look a bit of a mess, as one might expect after spending almost a month in the hospital. Aziraphale’s hair has grown long and shaggy - his bleach-blond curls tickling his cheeks and ears now, with pale stubble growing across his chin. There is a nasty scar, pink and new, along the nape of his neck that he can only partially hide with his mop of hair, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. 

Crowley’s hair has yet to fully grow back, but red peach-fuzz has begun to spring up across his scalp. The skin of his arms and legs are wrinkled in places, light red and taut as it persists in its healing. His face was spared the worst of his scarring, but there is still pink, tender scar tissue surrounding his left eye. The eye itself has grown milky and white - he was told he would likely never see properly out of it again. And you know, Crowley finds that he’s alright with that. 

The graft tissue under his bandages ache a bit as he walks, the friction from his pants and the tension on the redeveloping skin is just on the cusp of uncomfortable. But overall, he counts himself lucky. Without a word, he smiles back at Aziraphale and squeezes his shoulder with affection. 

“You know,” Aziraphale starts, his attention turning back to the bustling sidewalk in front of him, watching it with a glimmer of wonder in his eyes, “It’s strange… I know I must have had a life before all this. But I feel like I’ve been born anew somehow, like I’ve somehow been reset. I’m the same me, and yet I’m not,” Aziraphale sighs. “My life was likely different before I went to hospital, even if I can’t remember it all; maybe it was even better than it is now, but I don’t miss it, I don’t find myself pining for it or lamenting its loss. Right now, I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. Sitting here with you, I feel like it’s right. And I’m okay with that; in fact, I’m  _ more  _ than okay with it.” 

Crowley nods his understanding and rubs Aziraphale’s shoulder. He allows himself to savor the touch, to treasure this first real moment of contact between them. He finds himself feeling much the same way that Aziraphale does. There was a life he used to have, and there is the life he has now, and Crowley decides that he would rather life for the life he has now than sit and worry about what his life used to be. 

“Where should we go?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly. 

“Home, I suppose. I don’t know.” 

“Can’t say I remember where home is…” 

Suddenly, Aziraphale shifts and tugs a wallet out of his pocket. 

“They said this was on me when I came in,” he says, waving the wallet idly before opening it and tugging out an identification card. 

Crowley furrows his brow, remembering the wallet in his own back pocket. He tugs it out and finds his own identification. He examines the address with curiosity; the street name rings familiar, but he can hardly picture his own home. He wonders if Aziraphale is having the same troubles. 

Crowley peaks over at Aziraphale’s card and reads the address. The street name listed on Aziraphale’s identification is more than familiar to Crowley, however; in fact, it is outright painful to look at. Something hot and aching coils in his gut, viscera churning briefly as he closes his eyes and attempts to ward it away. With a thick gulp, Crowley calms himself. 

“You wanna go there?” Crowley asks, voice taut. 

Aziraphale doesn’t look up, keeping his focus on his identification. He drags his thumb across the laminated front of the card and sighs. 

“Yes.” 

They’re only a few blocks away, and they find the address with ease. Crowley had half-expected an apartment of some sort, but instead, they are greeted by little more than a burnt-out husk of what appears to have once been a bookshop. A tattered, singed sign hangs cockeyed along the shopface. 

**_A.Z. Fell & Co._ **

Crowley’s breath hitches as he reads the letters, and he has to close his eyes. 

_ Flames flare around him.  _

_ “Aziraphale! Aziraphale?! Where the heaven are you, you idiot?! I can’t find you!”  _

Crowley shakes his head vigorously and forces himself to return to the present moment. Beside him, Aziraphale lets out a low, shaking breath. The pain on his face is palpable as he stares up at the demolished building. Crowley stands a fraction closer to Aziraphale and reaches out to gently grab his hand. 

They might not remember this place, but the significance of it weighs heavily in both of their souls. 

A silent tear slips down Aziraphale’s cheek, and Crowley can only squeeze his hand in a pathetic attempt to reassure him. No words could come close to relieving either of their pain at the moment. 

“It burnt down about a month or so ago, lads,” a random man says from behind them. 

They both startle and turn around quickly, letting go of each other’s hands as they do. Aziraphale is quick to brush the tear from his face. 

“Damn shame, too, if you ask me,” the gentleman continues, “It was a really unique place. Owner was a bit of a knob though, from what I heard - never wanted to actually  _ sell  _ his books. Still a shame, however.” 

A pang of familiar fondness flares in Crowley’s chest, and even Aziraphale lets out an aching laugh. He thanks the stranger, who then continues on his way. Aziraphale turns his attention back towards the building. They stare at it for another moment before Crowley finally breaks the silence. 

“You can… You can stay at my place, if you like…” 

**::**

They find the address on Crowley’s identification with relative ease, and as they walk in its direction, they find each step becoming more and more familiar. As they approach the building, Crowley catches sight of a slick, black Bentley parked in a designated spot in the car park. His steps falter and he approaches the vehicle with care, Aziraphale trailing behind him. The corner of his mouth flicks upwards as he draws nearer and he reaches a hand out to touch the roof. 

“Hello, old girl,” He mutters, more to himself than to anyone else, and then steps away from the car, proceeding onward towards his building. 

They reach the front door of the penthouse apartment, and Crowley realizes, after patting his pockets, that he doesn’t have a key. He sighs and without thinking gestures with frustration at the door knob, as though that might somehow magically unlock it. He doesn't know why he did it, but chooses not to dwell on the hows and whys too hard. Instead, Crowley  begins to look around the door and door frame for any spot where a spare key might be hidden. He eyes the top of the door frame and cocks his head. Without hesitation, he reaches up and fumbles along its edge. His fingers find the key as though it had been divinely left for him. He’s sure the explanation is far simpler than that though - whoever he was before all this, he must have been smart enough to think to leave spare keys around, just in case. But something about that very practical explanation doesn’t sit right with Crowley. 

The key feels foreign in his hand, as though he’d never held it or used it before. But he unlocks the door swiftly and shoves it open, revealing his apartment - silent and still as a tomb. He strides past the threshold with Aziraphale close on his heels. The apartment is spacious, but a bit barren and bleak. It has dark concrete walls, only moderate natural light, and extremely minimalist decor. 

Crowley kind of likes it - but he wonders how comfortable the space must seem to Aziraphale. 

Looking around, Crowley sees dead plants in every corner of the apartment. It’s understandable - he hasn’t been home in a month, and no one has been around to tend to their needs. And yet, Crowley cannot help but feel… marginally  _ disappointed  _ and  _ irritated  _ with the plants for just giving up like they have. He's gone a month, and they simply lay down and die? Shame.  


With a huff, Crowley continues on. Quickly enough, he stumbles upon the master bedroom, and the spare bedroom, which Crowley promptly offers to Aziraphale. 

Crowley stands in the doorway of the spare bedroom as Aziraphale ventures inside and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. 

Crowley clears his throat. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Yes, a bit,” Aziraphale admits, but he doesn’t seem overly eager to venture out yet. “You?”

“I am a bit peckish.” 

Crowley still hasn’t figured out why hunger remains such a foreign sensation to his body, but he has to hope that its strangeness will pass eventually. 

“Do you want to go now?” 

Aziraphale contemplates, his face burdened with thought. 

“I think I rather want to stay here for a bit, if that’s alright.” 

“Yeah, o’course.” 

Crowley enters the spare bedroom and seats himself next to Aziraphale on the edge of the bed. Their arms brush, but neither of them move away from one another. 

“Is it weird for you?” Crowley asks, “Bunking up with a stranger?” 

Aziraphale’s face grows serious then, and he fixates his gaze on Crowley. 

“You aren’t a stranger,” he insists. 

Crowley looks up at him and catches his eyes. Deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right. 

“Crowley, listen to me. I don’t know what happened to us. I don’t know why we were found together, or why we woke up in the hospital together. I have no idea why we have suffered the things that we have. But what I _do_ know is,” Aziraphale pauses and sighs, dropping his gaze away from Crowley’s, “I feel as though I have known you for  _ millennia. _ And I’m deciding right now to stop questioning that feeling.” 

Crowley’s brow furrows as he stares at Aziraphale’s profile. 

“I’ve decided that we are together now because someone or something intended for us to be together, whether that's God, or the universe, I don't know, but I'm okay with it. I'm okay with this, because the feeling I get when I’m around you? The way I ache for you when you aren’t around? I can't even begin to put them into words,” Aziraphale shakes his head, “But I don’t want those feelings to go away, and I don’t want to pretend they aren’t there.” 

Aziraphale takes a long breath; Crowley watches, captivated, as Aziraphale's chest rises and falls. Without thinking, Crowley leans a bit more heavily against Aziraphale’s arm. Something shifts in Aziraphale in that moment: he turns and cups Crowley’s face in both his hands. His palms cradle the sharp angle of Crowley’s jaw, and his thumbs trace the tender skin of his cheeks. 

Crowley is enraptured for an instant, but remembers his modest sense of self-control in the next. He shies his gaze away from Aziraphale’s and drops his head, hiding his injured eye as much as it can be hidden. With an unsteady breath, he shuts his eyes completely. 

“I’m sorry this happened to us,” Aziraphale tells him. His palms still cupping Crowley’s face, Aziraphale silently urges Crowley's head back up to look at him again. 

“But,” Aziraphale continues once he has met Crowley’s eyes again, “I will never be sorry for knowing you.” 

Crowley wants to speak, by founds that his words have run dry. Instead, he nods and he leans in close as Aziraphale pulls their mouths together. 

**::**

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> ta-da! I hope you guys enjoyed this piece - as I said, it was a real blast for me to write. I love human AUs, I love hospital AUs, and I love memory-loss scenarios in which two people find each other all over again. If you liked this, maybe consider dropping me a little comment or kudos, and definitely make sure to go check out siskey's art for this fic!! 
> 
> [ART LINK COMING SOON] 
> 
> [rebloggable link here](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/642422546040553473/yes-uh-he-huffs-with-urgency-this-is-pc) & retweetable link here


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